The Drifter
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: A drifter's life has the beginnings of something good –


Bodie woke slowly. He knew that any movement was going to hurt. He remained perfectly still as he allowed his mind to clear of concussion and shock. He had no idea where he was now, but one thing at a time. He'd got into a fight at a pub, a depressingly common occurrence, but this time he found an ally by his side – stupid bugger. Rule one: don't interfere in other people's arguments. Ok so Bodie had been drunk and outnumbered but nonetheless …

Since he'd left the SAS his life had drifted. He'd left an exciting job (despite the grinding drills and being shouted at by his superiors) as he had an increasing need to be his own man; to make his own decisions; to use that initiative his commander claimed he had but refused to grant him. He'd had the idea of setting himself up as a private eye-cum heavy or protector. That hadn't worked out as he'd no clear idea of how to do either. What an idiot. Pride wouldn't allow him to return to the SAS – even if they'd have him back – so he'd got odd jobs here and there, with a lot of alcohol washing under various damaged bridges and broken promises. This wasn't the first time he'd picked a fight against the odds. The greater the odds and greater the challenge. He hadn't reckoned on the onlookers joining in against him though. He reflected that the gang had been on their home turf and likely to have friends – or at least those too afraid to go against them. But Bodie had found an unexpected ally. He didn't have the look of the military but he could certainly fight. Perhaps he belonged to a rival gang, or was here sussing out the opposition for a possible take-over. Whatever the reason, he gave it his all, even though they were still very much outnumbered. Then Fate gave Bodie another birthday present. A wail of sirens was heard gathering momentum, which had most of the fighters scattering. Bodie turned and, for that piece of inattention, received a blow to the head. He felt a hundred boots (it seemed) kicking the life out of him as he fell and as he began to lose consciousness on the barroom floor.

 _So that was then_ , Bodie thought, _and this is now_. He risked opening a damaged eye. The eyeball travelled round the room, taking everything in slowly. A bedroom. Not much furniture that he could make out in the dark. Curtains closed, door open. There were some things on the bedside cabinet but his head was too sore to turn to look for details. He heard the gentle tick of a clock. As he listened, he heard something else. It took a while to work it out. Breathing – someone else was breathing. His eye had got more used to the dark now and he scanned the room again. He had to turn his head slowly and painfully to get a better look and saw a man on the floor next to his bed. As if sensing a movement, the man got up.

"You took your time," he said, stretching himself. It was Bodie's ally.

"Where am I?"

"I'm Ray Doyle," he replied, ignoring the question. "You'll stay here till you can walk."

With that, Doyle left. Bodie raised an eyebrow, and then tried to peel himself off the bed. A cry escaped his lips. He looked cautiously at the door but Doyle didn't return. He felt sick and dizzy so reluctantly let his head fall back on the pillow. His next question was: _where am I?_ Since Doyle hadn't answered his first enquiry, it seemed unlikely that he'd answer the second. Bodie wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking. He was dozing off again when his mentor returned with a bowl of soup and a chair. He managed to get his patient into a near sitting position and settled himself down ready to feed.

"I can bloody manage," Bodie snarled, embarrassed by his weakness.

"Go on then," Doyle challenged, handing over the bowl.

Bodie glared at him, realising that there was something wrong with his right hand and he was too weak in any case to handle anything as heavy as a bowl of food. The bowl wobbled and some soup slopped onto the bedclothes. Doyle retrieved it silently and fed his reluctant patient the warming broth. It tasted homemade and quite delicious.

"What's this then?" Bodie asked after he'd finished.

He raised his splinted, bandaged hand. Doyle wasn't sure how much Bodie remembered, and whether he should be looking out for amnesia.

"You got into a fight," he started.

"Yeah, I do that a lot."

Doyle wasn't sure whether that was sarcasm or boasting. He let it go.

"You've got a few fractured ribs, two dislocated fingers and concussion. If there are internal injuries you'll have to get on with it. I've put your fingers back. That's as much as I can do for now. Do you need the loo?"

Now that he'd mentioned it, Bodie felt a growing and urgent need. What did this bloke have in mind?! Doyle saw the indecision in Bodie's eyes. He suppressed a grin and unceremoniously drew back the covers. Bodie noticed, with some relief, that he still had on his trousers at least. His body was covered in deep bruises and his ribs were strapped up. There were plasters here and there. Doyle expertly swung his patient slowly and carefully into a sitting position at the edge of the bed, and then slid his arm under Bodie's shoulder and lifted firmly. Bodie fought back the pain but felt reassured at Doyle's confidence.

"You a doctor or something?" he gasped.

"Something like that."

This bloke was getting under Bodie's skin. Fortunately Doyle left him at the threshold to the bathroom and let him get on with it. As he came out, Doyle was standing in the corridor ready to help him back to bed. In the clearer light out here Bodie could get a better look at him. He looked infinitely tired. It occurred to Bodie to wonder how long he'd been here – and, while he was at it, why here and not at a hospital? As he was put to bed, one half of him – the angry half - wanted answers and wasn't afraid to break a few teeth to get them, and the other half – the logical side – reminded him that, for the moment at least, he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag.

Bodie drifted in and out of consciousness for a few days. He was taken to the loo and fed. Since he was clean-shaven, he had the embarrassing thought that Doyle had been giving him bed baths while he was asleep. _Well, that can stop_ , Bodie thought angrily to himself. He made another attempt to get out of bed and was relieved that he could at least get into a sitting position at the edge of the bed by himself now. He leaned on the bedside cabinet for support while he got his balance. He raised his head, braced his shoulders and took a deep and painful breath. He was embarrassed and surprised to see Doyle leaning on the doorframe, quietly watching.

"You got second sight or something?"

"Something like that."

Yes, this man was _really_ getting up Bodie's nose!

"I suppose you're going to keep me here till I crack? And if you say 'something like that' I'll take you apart!"

Doyle knew that it was all bravado, but didn't want to belittle the man. He was so easy to wind up.

"Take a shower and I'll fill you in. Here."

Bodie had to endure Doyle's close physical presence as he peeled off the strapping as gently as he could. Bodie bit his lip as the damaged ribs shifted into a new position. Next came the splinted hand. Bodie was as curious as his helper to see the extent of his injuries there. The fingers were black and swollen as Doyle eased the splints away.

"Can you manage?"

"I don't need my back scrubbing. Haven't I had enough bed baths?"

"Far too many," he snapped, "I'm not your bloody nanny."

With that Doyle disappeared into the further reaches of the flat – house? Bodie, too, in his way, was getting up Doyle's nose. _Then just who are you?_ Bodie wondered as he made his unsteady way into the bathroom. It took a while for him to carefully remove his trousers and knickers and manoeuvre himself into and out of the bath, but he took his time as he didn't want Doyle coming in and scraping him naked off the bathroom floor. Everything had been laid out for him – clean clothes (which fitted), shaving kit, towel, etc. No shoes though. Doyle didn't want him doing a runner. It was cold and wet out there. Bodie had peeped under the bathroom blinds the previous day but the view outside onto other houses hadn't enlightened him.

Feeling stronger after his shower, Bodie followed his nose and found the kitchen. It was big, light and airy. The table was set for two. Doyle turned round from the stove and filled two bowls. He put them on the table silently as Bodie eased himself on to a chair. The injury to his right hand was becoming a nuisance. His 'doctor' had fed him enough painkillers though to keep most of the pain at bay.

"First things, first," Doyle said as Bodie took a napkin. "Can you move your fingers?"

Bodie tried and suppressed a moan.

"I'll take that as a 'no' then."

Doyle got the first aid kit and rebandaged the hand quickly and expertly. He'd deal with the ribs later. Then Bodie was free to get on with his first meal sat at a table like a normal human being. The stew was delicious and even the bread tasted homemade.

"So, chef, doctor, batman, nursemaid. Anything else?" Bodie asked, wiping his bowl with the last of the bread.

Doyle was silent for a while before replying, "Lover, trusting, loyal friend, and," he paused, "CI5 agent."

Bodie looked across the table, wondering if he were joking. A calm and serious pair of eyes looked back at him.

Just as Bodie was about to open his mouth, his mentor cut in, "Apple pie?"

Without waiting for an answer, Doyle opened the oven door and a fragrant odour of fruit and spices regaled Bodie's nostrils. Doyle served up and added custard. Bodie was a very happy man. Doyle saw his new companion relaxing. Bodie had to put up with fruit juice rather than the alcohol he wanted, but he realised that he wasn't actually missing it all that much and, with a bit of effort, he could even kick the habit altogether.

Doyle cleared the table then tossed a tea towel in Bodie's direction. The hint was taken up and the pair worked in companionable silence. Doyle made a jug of coffee for them and took the tray into the lounge. As they settled down, Bodie felt instinctively that he was on the edge of something.

"A man is going to arrive soon." Doyle looked at his watch. "His name is Major George Cowley. He's head of CI5. You don't apply to join CI5; Cowley seeks you out. He heard about you and sought you out. He liked what he saw." When Bodie snorted in disbelief and turned his head away, Doyle continued. "He looks beyond the obvious, Bodie. He never takes things at face value. You'll learn that about him quick enough …"

"Is he your father or something?"

Doyle smiled slowly. "Something like that."

He saw anger flash across Bodie's eyes. Had he been in better shape, he would have throttled his tormenter where he sat. Doyle chided himself. Cowley wanted the gentle touch with this soon-to-be agent, which is why he'd given Doyle this first assignment. Yet here he was, goading him. Doyle almost apologised – almost. He softened his tone.

"He wanted me to check you out and check you over. He's sure you can kick your love affair with alcohol," he raised a silencing hand as Bodie tensed, "and resolve your depression."

"I'm not bloody depressed," Bodie cut in. Doyle noticed that Bodie didn't deny the alcohol bit.

"But you've been here nearly a week, and on your feet now. You haven't got the DTs or cravings. So far, so good. But you're a drifter, Bodie. Cowley says that good material like you shouldn't be wasted. I agree with him. You're worth far more than this." Doyle leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with sincerity. "You've got so much to give and Cowley's not going to let you throw your life away."

"What the hell's it got to do with him – or you?"

"Yeah, it's your life. I know. But just listen to what the Major has to say, Bodie, and don't let your pride get in the way. He can offer you a better life than this. I promise you."

"Is that why I wasn't put in hospital, because Cowley wanted you to soften me up with bedtime stories and Dr Kildare antics?"

Doyle heard that the anger was still there. He sighed with frustration. It was going to be a long night. He had to try again.

"Major Cowley wants …"

Then there was a knock on the door. Doyle got up to answer it, and Bodie's life changed forever.


End file.
